


Nightmares

by Madam_Fandom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baby Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Grief, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary Dies, Murder, Nightmares, POV John Watson, Regretful John, Singing, Supportive Sherlock, Tags Contain Spoilers, lost of child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madam_Fandom/pseuds/Madam_Fandom
Summary: I’m loving all the Parentlock stories but what about the other side of the coin? What if there really was no baby, how would that affect our poor Watson?





	

John sat up abruptly, his breath coming fast and choppy. He wiped a hand over his wet face. John Watson had just woken up from another nightmare. He was shivering from the sweat that covered his body in the air conditioned flat. He had been having a variation of this dream for the past 6 months. He thought maybe he should see someone about this grief like he did the last time he’d lost someone important to him. A lot of good that had done. Going to see Ella when he had thought Sherlock had died never gave him any resolution, she just served as a test for the rest of the world, to gauge if his faking, his saying he was fine had gotten more believable. To test if he could live his life on the surface as if everything was okay and back to normal while below the surface, he was a cesspool of conflicting emotions.

He had thought Sherlock was lost to him, and then, he’d turned up at the restaurant,  interrupting his proposal to Mary, all he could think about was Sherlock's words, _“Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy.”_ He was aware that it was a Holmes thing, something both Mycroft and Sherlock said, but to him, it felt like a message. And on that night, the man that he loved returned. John had to find out the hard way, the cruel way that he was in love with Sherlock and as a result, he had been so angry when he saw Sherlock. Angry for leaving him for two years, no words, no hints, just a black headstone reflecting his grief back at him like some sort of funny mirror at a funhouse.

Looking back on it all, he supposes it was a sign, he should have just left Mary right then and there and told Sherlock how he felt. But once he got over his anger, there was still fear to be conquered. What if Sherlock _didn’t_ feel the same way? It wasn’t until his wedding, his own bloody fucking wedding that he saw proof that Sherlock loved him. But it was too late then, wasn’t it?

 

His guilt about all the things Sherlock went through since his return kept him away from Sherlock. And then he’d run into the man in the last expected place, a drug den. He’d jumped to conclusions and didn’t believe him when he said it was for a case. And still, Sherlock remained by his side.

Things only got worse over time. The gap between Sherlock and himself. John suspected they were both to be blamed, Sherlock needed space because he couldn’t stand to see John with anyone else. And he, because he couldn’t stand to see himself not with Sherlock.

 

They started back solving cases together, but things were never better, they were just a sad parody of what they once were, a well-oiled machine of heart and brains. Besides, Mary had been there every step of the way. And then that night happened; the night his baby was to be born. John stifled a sob. But she wasn’t, Mary had lied to him. She had never been pregnant, she did things to ensure Sherlock would make that deduction of her being pregnant. She implemented tactics to conceal the fake pregnancy. And once she had started “showing” all intimacy stopped, which meant no seeing her naked pregnant belly. She had been very resourceful and conniving his bitch of a wife. And when John had asked her why, why she’d done all of this, her answer had broken Sherlock. John hadn’t seen him look so broken since the night of his wedding when Sherlock _thought_ he was sneaking out of the wedding early. Mary had told him she was doing it because she was ordered to. She was helping to burn the heart out of Sherlock. She then smiled like she was proud of herself. She raised her gun to shoot who- he would never know because he shot her first. Sherlock had just stood there frozen in shock, and John had acted on instinct. He would not allow this woman to take Sherlock away from him again or anything else, no more lies, no more deceit. He was through.

 

His nightmares weren’t about killing his wife, as most people would assume. They were about his little girl. The one that never existed. In some dreams, she was stillborn, in others he watched helplessly as Mary killed her. How could he miss someone that never was? How could his heart be so effectively broken over a child that never existed?

He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t eating, he was barely living. He had moved back into 221-B simply because he had nowhere else to go. He couldn’t live in his and Mary’s flat any longer. And Sherlock being the supportive rock that he was, offered him a home, a haven.

Sherlock and Mycroft had helped with the Mary issue. Considering Mary Morstan never existed beyond a stillbirth, there was little logistics for Mycroft to work out.

 

John couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for killing her. She would forever be thought of as the woman who had tried to kill his best friend and who had killed his child. Fake or otherwise. He had _believed_ he was going to be a father, and he had fought to be okay with it, to be happy about an unplanned child. To deal with the hurt he saw on Sherlock’s face at the news. And now? He had nothing to show for all of it but an empty spot where his heart should be.

 

John made his way downstairs quietly. He didn’t want to disturb Sherlock. For all he knew Sherlock could be up. It was a hard-won battle every night he woke up from a nightmare to not start drinking. He had noticed Sherlock had gotten rid of all the alcohol in the flat, so he _knew_ John was in a bad way. But what Sherlock did not know was that he and gone out the same night he saw they were missing and bought ten miniature bottles of whiskey and hid them in various places. He never drank them, but they were there like a security blanket, he felt better knowing the alcohol was there if he ever felt the need to drown himself in that slow liquid death. In the sitting room, he kept the lights out and went directly to his chair reaching down into the cushions, looking for one of the bottles. He couldn’t find it. Okay, maybe Sherlock had found that one. He was turning towards a bookshelf when he heard, “John.”

He closed his eyes. Sherlock’s smooth baritone always did things to him, things better left unexplored. He waited for Sherlock to say more. Moments passed and nothing else was said. A warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, and another turned him around. John looked up, he could just make out Sherlock in light from the street.

“John.” He said again. Like he felt his name held all the answers to the universe.

Hesitantly one of Sherlock’s hands came up to cup his face.

“I found all ten bottles John.” Sherlock rushed on to say, “I know you aren’t drinking, but I don’t want to the temptation to become too great.”

John simply nodded his head unable to formulate any words to this oracular genius. But as usual, he need not say anything, Sherlock was capable of speaking for them both.

“John” Sherlock’s thumb was stroking the side of his face in an absent-minded fashion, “John, I know you are hurting. And I know I could never take the place of a lost child,” John was stunned that Sherlock knew from whence his pain came from. It would be a much more logical assumption for him to be mourning the loss of his lying, backstabbing, cunt of a wife. Mourning all that she took from him, time. So much lost time. But Sherlock had cut through all the haze and saw to the heart of the matter.

“Please let me help you through this John, let me be there for you like I have never done before.”

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own. “You have.” He croaked out. “You have _always_ been there for me. I just never realized it until it was too late. Everything you have done, every crazy stunt, was all for me. To keep my mind off all the hurtful things. And then you left, to save me,”

“John I never sa-”

“You didn’t have to say it. I put it together after a time. Remember, you said I’m clever too.”

Sherlock wiped at John’s tears. John hadn’t realized he was crying. “When you left to save me, I betrayed you by getting with that- that _she-devil_! I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m so bloody sorry! The weight of it all, how can you still stand? How can you still stand me? I put you through so much, I’ve-”

John was openly crying now, his voice breaking on the words. But Sherlock was crying too, big silent crocodile tears. “You love me. I know you do, don’t deny it. Only love would make you do the things you’ve done for me. Only love would make you stay a constant in the background of my life. Only _love_ would give you the strength to keep your love to yourself, suffering because you thought I would be happier with someone who wasn’t you.” John reached up his own hand, wiping at Sherlock’s tears now. “No, you can’t repla-” John broke, his sobs burst from him, he couldn’t hold them in any longer. He cried for his little Rosie lost, he cried for the way his life had become, he cried for Sherlock always being the strong one emotionally, and being told he had no emotions. He cried for them, and their time lost. Mostly he just cried, letting his body, grieve while Sherlock held him tight against his chest.

 

At some point, John became aware of the fact that Sherlock’s dressing gown was soaked from his tears, secondly and probably most importantly, Sherlock was singing quietly to him as he rocked him. He felt a kiss pressed into his hair.

“John.”

John looked up at Sherlock, realizing then, and only then, that his arms had somehow gotten themselves wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. When John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, he saw how much this man loved him, how much he had suffered for him. Sherlock lowered his head slowly, giving John time to move, or back out, he didn’t. He raised his own lips up to meet Sherlock’s. It was gentle, a mere meeting of lips. John deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth for better access to Sherlock’s. His hands fisted in Sherlock's dressing gown while the detective’s held John’s face, still cradled in his large hands.

Sherlock pulled away slowly, breathing heavy. “John, I-”

“Shh Sherlock.”

“John I love you.”

John could feel Sherlock steadying himself.

“Anything you need, anything at all to get through this, I will be here to help.”

“Just you.”

“What?”

“I can get through this with you. I can make it manageable with you by my side.”

Sherlock crushed John to him in a fierce hug. “Yes.”

 

 


End file.
